


No Sound But You

by chillydeer



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Cringe, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Humor, M/M, Post-Game(s), Post-Time Skip, Smut, camping while traveling, dimilix week 2020, idiots to lovers, implied Dorothea/Sylvain, there is only one tent, you see where this is going
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-19 12:30:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22710859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chillydeer/pseuds/chillydeer
Summary: Years after the war, things are going relatively well...on all fronts but one. Dimitri makes the mistake of confiding in Sylvain about Felix. Sylvain helps in the best way he knows how.Featuring two touch-starved idiots and one troublemaking best friend.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 14
Kudos: 152





	No Sound But You

**Author's Note:**

> I’m so sorry, this idea gripped me and would not let me work on anything else until it was birthed into the world. Blame Sylvain, horniest wingman in all of Fódlan.

The air is cool on his neck as Felix drives the tent stake into the ground, while soldiers on either side of him help attach the velvet fastenings. Colder than usual for Garland Moon, but as a man from Faerghus, he rarely complains of cold. Complaining is for the weak.

He stands and wraps his cape tighter around him, surveying their handiwork. The king’s tent for the evening sprawls twice the width of a standard single-occupant camping tarp. Blue and golden patterned canvas, with silver tassels and trim, it is the height of luxury compared to their wartime accommodations. 

And this isn’t even the royal traveling pavilion. Simply the most comfortable accommodations their retinue could supply following His Majesty’s impulsive demands.

Scowling, Felix pulls the heavy drapes shut and ensures the clasps and ties are untangled for ease of securing once they retire. He doesn’t understand why they are camping. No business in Fhirdiad is so important that it merits such a hasty return. What in the name of Saint Macuil’s tits is Dimitri hurrying for?

He glances at Dimitri a short distance away, who is frowning at something Sylvain is telling him. It has been a trying day traveling at breakneck speed out of the oppressive heat of Ailell. The exhaustion prickling at the corners of Dimitri’s eye and mouth is far from unusual, but something seems off about him that has set Felix on edge all day. 

A low thrum of worry flares in his chest. Though nothing in Dimitri’s countenance suggests it, Felix braces every day for another of his black moods to descend upon them. Watching, waiting for any sudden changes that might signal a downward spiral Felix won’t be able to save him from.

So far on their journey, things are calm. Until today, for some Goddess-forsaken reason, when Dimitri insists on camping! In a defenseless valley in the northern half of Galatea! When any of the towns between Ingrid’s family seat and the former Alliance border would have gladly bent over backwards to host the Savior King of Fódlan. 

He kicks at a rock and watches it roll into a tree nearby. It would be simpler at an inn. Felix could take a room next to Dimitri, close enough to listen for any night terrors, solitary enough for his own peace of mind. 

Instead, he is forced to share a tent with the boar king, since they are too short of supplies to sleep alone. Felix doesn’t trust anyone else to monitor Dimitri’s wellbeing. There _isn’t_ anyone else who knows the tells, save perhaps Dedue. But Dedue and Ashe remained behind in Derdriu to study the Alliance agricultural and trade practices with Lorenz and Ignatz. So Felix it is.

He nods at the waiting soldiers, dismissing them to their own roughshod barracks for the night. Halfway down the hill, more tents lay scattered among the trees. Groups of knights sit circled around campfires that glint like fireflies in the twilight. Their company is large enough to fill whatever river basin this is, a few hundred paces from the road leading north to Fraldarius and beyond. 

A horse whinnies behind him, and Felix turns to see Ingrid tending to not one but two horses as they drink from a stream. Dorothea is at her side in animated conversation; she’d joined their party out of Derdriu on her tour of performances up the eastern continent. 

Felix frowns. Yet another reason they should be staying near a town. The war’s been over three years now. While he doesn’t mind skant accommodations, making guests sleep on the ground is not a habit that needs reviving.

At least Dorothea is pleasant company. She catches Felix’s eyes and waves, which causes Ingrid to look over and smile at him. He lifts his hand and returns the smile, albeit a bit strained. 

“Felix!” calls Dorothea, grinning sweetly. 

Felix sighs and treks toward them. Nothing better to do while Dimitri is still occupied. 

The two horses—one must belong to Dorothea, he surmises—dip their noses into the trickle of water, which dribbles over their lips and onto the stones with little plinks and splashes. Ingrid has both sets of reins in one hand, murmuring sweet nothings at each animal in turn. 

“Hello, Felix.” Dorothea takes his hands and darts a quick kiss to his cheek. He grouses but allows it, only because he hasn’t seen her in a year. “Unsociable as ever, I see. Why do you look so dour all the time?”

Felix offers a half-hearted pat to the nearest horse’s rump. “I’m not dour. I’m busy.”

Ingrid snorts and rolls her eyes. Dorothea laughs. “You should come sit with us tonight. Relax and enjoy the lovely scenery.” She sweeps a grand gesture at the darkening countryside around them. The basin, despite being in the most verdant part of Galatea, is still quite barren and stark, tree-dotted foothills giving way to a flat expanse as the river widens on its way eastward. It has its own kind of beauty, he supposes.

“You know I can’t,” he replies. 

“Ah yes.” Dorothea smiles. “Tending to His Majesty of course. So dutiful and diligent you are.”

Her eyes laugh at him without malice, but he still scoffs, picks at something on his sleeve. “Someone has to.”

Two of Ingrid’s soldiers approach, and Ingrid hands off the horses’ reins to one, who leads them further down the hill with the other horses and pegasi. The other soldier adjusts the folds of Ingrid’s tent off to one side of them, while Ingrid herself skewers the stakes in place. Felix moves to help her, but she waves him away like a fly on a horse’s tail.

Crossing his arms, he turns back to Dorothea. She’s sitting on a convenient tree stump with one hand dangling in the rippling stream. 

“Brings back memories, doesn’t it?” Dorothea hums in contentment. “Riding at lightning-quick paces. Sleeping on the road.”

Saints, he’s forgotten she likes talking just as much as Sylvain.

He sniffs. “Unwelcome ones.”

Ingrid stands and exhales loudly, brushing her gloves on one edge of the rough canvas. “At least we have no need to fear for our safety on this journey. Though had I known we would be cutting through so quickly, I would have requested that we divert through my father’s estate.”

“I agree. Seiros only knows why Dimitri chose this moment to be impulsive.”

Ingrid stills. “Is anything the matter, Felix? Something with His Majesty?”

Ah, he didn’t mean to admit his misgivings aloud. Felix hesitates, looks between them, at Ingrid’s worried eyes and Dorothea’s curious ones. “No.” He pauses and amends: “Nothing of consequence.”

“So something you’re choosing not to share, then?” Dorothea teases. Always trying to lighten the mood.

He grits his teeth, feeling his face grow warm. “Of course not. Dimitri is fine.” 

Dorothea shoots a knowing look at Ingrid, some stupid joke between them no doubt. “ _Dimitri_ , eh?” she says quietly.

Felix barely grunts in acknowledgement, his mind already elsewhere. 

_Is_ there anything the matter with Dimitri? Lately, the king’s attention has been less present, but not troubled; his stares more distant, but not dark. He has slept adequately, more or less, since their arrival in Derdriu, and their visit held nothing of alarm. Felix cannot determine a cause for this strange mood.

Only, thinking on it now, he has noticed Dimitri making awkward movements at times, when they are together. Clenching and stretching his hands. Lifting and lowering his arm like a buffoon. When they walked with Lorenz along the harbor as he explained the improved trade plans with Almyra, Dimitri moved stiffly, as if holding himself together with great effort. It was a long walk, to be sure, heralded as Derdriu’s most magnificent attraction with all its views of the ocean, but hardly something that would have caused any muscle strain. Could he be in pain? He has no lingering injuries…

And then Lorenz departed, leaving the two of them alone as the sun set behind the rows of shops along the beachfront market. Dimitri had unspun quiet nostalgic memories of travels they’d experienced as children and as students, levelling his gaze upon Felix with a wistful fondness that unsettled him in a way he still can’t name. There’s no point to such ramblings, Dimitri _knows_ this, and yet he...

Felix pinches his lips between two fingers, his face hot all of a sudden. What could cause the recent surge of internal reflection? Is Dimitri hearing more voices? Perhaps Felix should brew some tea before the evening ends.

He looks up at their tent, garish and ostentatious against the bleak landscape. “I should go.”

They try—and fail—to hide another shared smile from him.

“If you say so,” says Dorothea. 

Ingrid nods. “Good night, Felix.”

With a parting nod in return, he traipses back in the direction he came. The film of night’s blackness is settling above them. Dimitri will be turning in soon. If only Felix can remember where he stashed the chamomile blend. 

The uneven squelching of his steps gives him pause, and he lifts a boot to examine. Great, horse shit. As if this day can get any more insufferable. 

It’s then that he hears Dimitri and Sylvain heading toward him through the copse of trees on the other side, deep in discussion. Felix mutters a curse, grabbing the first tree he finds and scraping his boot along the exposed roots. 

“...sure this will work?” Dimitri is saying in a low voice. “Why won’t you tell me what it is you are planning?”

Felix holds his breath and leans back against the tree with the offending boot bracing his weight, trying to appear casual. They are still too far to notice him.

“Your Majesty.” Sylvain slides an arm around Dimitri’s fur-clad shoulders. “When have I ever let you down? Trust me, you’ll be singing my praises—or maybe someone else's—in no time.”

Sylvain’s tone is conspiratorial, velvety. His smooth demeanor falters as he catches sight of Felix, raising an eyebrow in expectation. Dimitri, even with Sylvain’s hold on him, walks with calm purpose, only the slant of his mouth betraying his unease.

“Sylvain,” Felix says as they approach. “I suppose you’re off to misbehave for the night.” He can’t help but flit his eyes to where Sylvain’s arm rests. “A shame we’re out in the wilderness. No unsuspecting townsfolk for you to flirt with here.” He doesn’t smile, but there’s little heat to his words. 

Sylvain, in contrast, grins wolfishly. “Oh, don’t worry, Felix, I’m plenty capable of getting into trouble no matter where His Royal Majesty’s journey takes us.” 

“Sylvain…”

“Only kidding, my liege.” He claps Dimitri on the back and winks. “Sweet dreams. You too, Your Grace.”

Felix grimaces at the title. He dislikes formal address almost as much as Dimitri, and Sylvain knows it. Dimitri is watching Sylvain stroll away with some consideration—in the opposite direction of his own tent, Felix notes—which raises Felix’s suspicions even further. 

Whatever’s going on will have to wait, however, as there are preparations to conclude. Felix lifts the tent flap and ducks his head under the tassels, stepping onto the sheepskin rug he’d laid beforehand. When he hears no movement behind him, he looks over his shoulder.

Dimitri has a hand on his chin, the other crooked under his elbow, regarding Felix thoughtfully. Even in the dim light, he is striking, his hair pulled back from his face with the ends just brushing the fur of his cloak, and Felix has to look away.

“Well?” he asks Dimitri’s boots. Gathering courage, he raises his eyes to Dimitri’s again. 

Dimitri bows his head. Unfolds one arm. “After you.”

Felix nods and enters the tent. A soldier has left a lantern burning in one corner, with more oil for fuel nearby. Two bedrolls, several pillows, various fur-lined blankets and one ornate embroidered quilt lie in a heap in front of him. The packs from their horses are opposite, on top of some wooden crates. 

He sets his swords aside to allow for easier maneuvering and begins with the beds, long woolen sacks stuffed with goose feathers for extra cushion. As students they used straw stuffing, but as king Dimitri can no longer get away with such meager equipment. 

Felix unrolls the padding side by side, as far apart as the space allows. The larger crates he leaves against one of the corner supports to bolster its weight, and with the lantern in the other corner, this means he and Dimitri will sleep no more than shoulder width apart. He purses his lips, but there’s nothing for it. 

He chooses the least stuffed of the pillows for each of them, along with the thinnest blankets. After a moment, he lays a second blanket on his own bed and the gilded quilt atop Dimitri’s.

As he rifles through their packs for the tea things, Felix catches a glint of light reflected from the lantern in the corner of his eye. Dimitri stands above him with a hand on one of the tent’s support beams.

Felix flinches. Saints, how can a person so large—and wearing full armor—sneak up so suddenly? 

“Ah, I am sorry,” Dimitri says. Felix stares blankly at him. Oddly, it’s the first time he has seen Dimitri in a tent tall enough to accommodate his height.

Felix moves back to the packs, unwrapping the folds of cloth that hold Dimitri’s teacups. Next is the pot, which he fills from a skein of water. A clay dish for the oil-soaked bits of wood, which Felix lights by sticking one in the lantern flame. The small tray that will hold the pot aloft above the fire.

“I’m making tea,” he states, as if it weren’t obvious. 

Dimitri sits upon a crate and nods absent-mindedly. “My thanks.”

Felix digs through to find the bundles of tea. He finds them inside a pair of socks, thankfully clean. 

“Felix.” 

He turns toward the voice. For once it is Dimitri who won’t meet his eyes. There is a pause as Dimitri examines the two beds and the small crate to one side, where Felix has placed the tea. “You do not need to sleep here if you would prefer not to.”

As if he would stay anywhere else. “It’s _fine,_ ” Felix replies abruptly. And then softer, eyes downcast: “It’s no trouble.”

“I see.” 

There is nothing but the sound of crackling wood and slowly heating water for a moment. Felix is normally grateful that Dimitri is not one to fill silence with endless prattle, but he senses something different about this one, and it drives him to speak.

“Are you planning to sleep in all of that armor?” 

Dimitri angles his head and breathes a laugh through his nose. “No, I suppose not.”

So while Felix prepares the tea, Dimitri removes his gauntlets, one at a time. Then his cloak, folding it into a square and depositing it at the foot of his bed. He reaches an arm up to undo his chest piece and hesitates. “Felix, could you...do you mind?”

Felix stands and moves behind him. With Dimitri seated, he can easily unhook the two halves of the armor, its onyx sheen an eerie mirror in the glimmering lantern light. 

His fingers brush against the sliver of skin at Dimitri’s neck, and Dimitri inhales sharply.

“Sorry, my hands are…” _not at all cold_ , Felix realizes, confused.

“Ah.” Dimitri bares his teeth, more sheepish than pained. “It’s nothing.”

He takes the armor from Felix. Between the two of them, they are able to remove the rest of the pieces without incident. Afterwards they sit, facing each other, on the beds. When the tea is ready, Felix pours some and hands a cup to Dimitri, who offers his thanks again. While waiting for their cups to cool, Felix extracts the bags of tea from the pot and lays them on a small porcelain plate. Cracks in the glaze have let tea stains seep through, but this is Dimitri’s favorite setting from his childhood, one his mother had used, so Felix has no plans to replace it.

Dimitri sips, and Felix finds his eyes drawn to him above his own drink. The lantern’s flame flickers, shadows dancing on the far side of his face, but the side that is lit glows softly, blurring everything except the sharp edge of his jaw, the dark circle of his eye patch. Like these teacups with their chipped handles, he knows there are cracks in Dimitri’s facade that have broken and been resealed many times.

Felix does not plan to let Dimitri out of his sight ever again, if he can help it. 

Dimitri’s voice rings out of nowhere. “You’re staring.”

Felix bristles and looks away. “I—”

“I know what you will say, but there is nothing the matter, I promise. No need for fuss.”

His voice is quiet, assured. Rehearsed. Of course, no amount of polite words can mask his stubborn refusal for help.

“I’m not fussing,” Felix grits out. Exhales. “The Goddess knows you won’t take care of yourself unless I’m here to do it for you.”

And losing his temper will help nothing, he knows.

“I hope you understand,” Dimitri begins. “Truly understand, I mean. When I say that your presence in my life is invaluable.”

Felix swallows thickly. This again. Felix has already sworn oaths to Dimitri, made plain his intentions, and yet Dimitri continues to spout effusive nonsense like this on a far too frequent basis. 

“You—” Felix sputters. He can’t bring himself to use Dimitri’s name in moments like these. It feels wrongly...intimate. But anything else is insufficient. “Thank you.” 

He doesn’t know what else to say. What few meaningful words ever come to him in Dimitri’s presence have all abandoned him tonight.

Dimitri’s smile is lopsided. “Now then. I won’t keep you from your rest.”

“You are the one who needs rest.”

A sigh. “I will try.”

Felix bites his tongue. It’s not good enough, but there is little point in forcing the issue.

He piles the tea things to one side and starts removing his boots and cape. Remembering that Dimitri is there, he faces away, hunching over, to shrug off his overshirt.

When he turns around, having peeled off his outer layers, Felix sees Dimitri lying on top of the quilt, one knee bent and one arm stretched behind his head. He is fingering a small bulge at the seam of his shirt, which Felix knows is a sachet of lavender potpourri sewed there by Mercedes. He can smell it subtly among the stale sweat and oil and lingering chamomile. 

Pulling his hair loose from its tie, he catches Dimitri looking at him as it spills to his shoulders, but not long enough to determine his expression.

“Well.” Felix avoids his eyes. “Good night, then.”

He twists around to blow out the lantern. Feels his way in the sudden darkness to his bed and crawls under the blankets. Soon there is nothing but the sounds of their breathing, the only evidence that Dimitri is even there.

He can feel Dimitri’s gaze on him. “Go to sleep,” he chides. 

But Dimitri doesn’t respond. Felix closes his eyes and exhales, as if to signal that he is unavailable for the remainder of the night. 

After a while, another faint sigh precedes a whispered, “Good night, Felix.”

~*~

The night is calm. It should allow for any easy drift into sleep, if not for the fact that Felix is intently focused on Dimitri _not sleeping_ beside him. Really this night is no different from others, only that there is no wall between the two of them. They’ve shared tents, even _beds_ , as boys. So why does he feel balanced on a precipice, attuned to Dimitri’s presence like a shadow?

He wonders how long they can keep up this stalemate. Does not wonder for long; ten minutes later, he hears it: a soft cry. 

Instantly alert, Felix cocks his ear toward the sound. He hears nothing out of place. Hardly a breeze, the barest hum of crickets. No enemy footsteps or rustling of cloth. Perhaps it is a dying animal? 

He strains further. Nothing for a minute. Then more noises—soft, wet ones. A low peal of laughter.

And Felix remembers. Remembers whose tent is behind them, not even a wagon’s length away. _Sylvain._

Felix shoves his face into the pillow. The bastard truly has no shame. 

The pillow doesn’t help, so he tries covering his head with the blankets. Not even the noise of his movements within the stillness of their tent can bury the offending sounds.

It’s no use. Now that he’s ascertained the origin of the disturbance, he can’t unhear it. 

Felix wonders briefly what unfortunate soul Sylvain has dragged into his orbit this time—some young impressionable knight, no doubt—when he hears a long _‘oh’_ with a cadence so melodic, there is no mistaking its source.

So Dorothea has no qualms about disturbing their peace, it seems. Felix thought she knew better than to take up with Sylvain, but then again, long journeys can wear down anyone’s defenses. 

He turns his head enough to glance at Dimitri. There is no way Dimitri can possibly be asleep, yet he lies there with eyes closed (having discarded the patch earlier) as if completely undisturbed.

Felix huffs in annoyance, as quietly as he can. Fine, if Dimitri can suffer through this, so can he. It won’t be the first time.

More sultry murmurs float toward him, the words mercifully too quiet to catch. Goddess, does Sylvain ever shut up? It must be a chore even to fuck him.

Minutes pass. Felix hears long, drawn out moans interspersed with periods of heavy panting. Dorothea gasping high-pitched, raspy cries as Sylvain encourages her. Like some sycophantic dance they spur each other on, slowly at first then quickening, sharp breaths bubbling into giggles and purred exhortations of _Sylvain, yes, please._ It might be the most obnoxious thing Felix has ever heard. 

Except it’s worse, because the sounds worm their way into Felix’s bloodstream and send it all downward. Each gasp makes his skin prickle. His eyes roll back into his head and his hand itches to press into the growing bulge in his pants.

Usually when he’s presented with these urges, Felix has no issue sorting them out on his own. But this is possibly the most inopportune moment for such a thing. 

For one, he is not alone. For two, his present companion, the _King of Fódlan_ , is perhaps the last person Felix would want to expose to his, hmm, needs.

He bites his lip and stills his hands. Focuses on mundane things, on their journey and the work that will greet them upon their return...

The noises have escalated; Dorothea is whining and panting in equal measure now, putting on quite the show. Then again, Sylvain loves having his, ahem, ego stroked. Felix rolls his eyes. The more he thinks about it, the more disgusted he feels, but the faster his heart pounds. 

If he lets his mind forget the people involved in this scenario, he can relax and— _Seiros,_ no, absolutely not. He is not going to let the sounds of his two friends fucking wash over him while he...while he what? Lies here with his mouth half open, toes curled and hands clenched at his sides, refusing to even acknowledge his own body?

He peeks at Dimitri, slides his eyes over without moving his head. Nothing. Good. He can’t be seen squirming like a repressed youth, like the student he was at the academy, muffling his cries in the pillow so Dimitri...so the _boar_ couldn’t hear him through the dormitory wall.

Guilt and shame mingle in his throat, and he swallows. Felix hasn’t thought these things in ages, doing his best to fill his schedule with work and training and mediating on Dimitri’s behalf. Exhaustion has always pushed away the knife’s edge of emotion better than anything else he knows. 

And yet.

 _Invaluable,_ Dimitri said. His hand skimming along Felix’s cape at Derdriu, lighter than a breeze. Those same hands, grazing Felix’s taut, stretched skin, all the way down to—

Felix gasps—softly, but it may as well be a wyvern screech to his ears. The sound is promptly overshadowed by a loud cry from Dorothea, and though he’s loath to admit it, Felix is grateful for her volume. 

His face floods with heat. _Fuck._ This isn’t working, he has to stop thinking...

Perhaps lowering his temperature will help. Slowly, with as little motion as possible, Felix slides one arm out of his shirt underneath the bedcovers, and then the other. He ducks his head through the ring of fabric and lets the shirt fall beside him with his other clothes. The air is cooler against his skin. Not enough to ease the tension in his groin, but removing his pants poses too great a risk. It is best that he keeps himself inaccessible, best that he ignores the feeling and goes to sleep.

A low, guttural moan—he can’t even tell whose—seeps its way under the canvas, and his cock twitches. 

Glowering, Felix flattens his ears and then his face with his hands, anything to keep them from wandering beneath the fur blankets. This is absurd. Embarrassing. He shouldn’t—he doesn’t need this. He needs to sleep, for fuck’s sake.

He rolls over again. Dimitri is staring at him, his one eye almost glowing in the dark as it locks with Felix’s. 

Felix immediately flushes and looks away.

“What?” he hisses. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

“I think you know the answer to that,” murmurs Dimitri, inclining his head toward their neighbors. 

His voice is deep even in a whisper, and it flutters right down Felix’s spine. Fuck. He tugs the blanket up to his shoulders. If Dimitri notices his lack of shirt, he doesn’t comment. 

“Someone should shut them up,” he says bitterly. Sweat beads at his temples. “Aren’t there guards on watch?” 

“This is...not the type of matter for guards to get involved.”

“Can you not make them? You are the king.” 

It wouldn’t take much involvement, he thinks. One good prod with the butt of a lance from outside the tent should do it. 

Dimitri sighs. “Felix, they’re not _harming_ anyone.”

“They’re idiots,” he grumbles half into the pillow. “What happened to all of your lectures on proper behavior and respect?”

“You above all should know that I am the last person who could lecture anyone about proper behavior, after all I have done.”

Felix knows, he _knows_ what Dimitri means has absolutely nothing to do with the type of behavior Sylvain is exhibiting, but saints if his blood doesn’t flow a bit faster at the words. 

Speaking of Sylvain, he’s going to kill him. Felix will murder his best friend if he makes it through this night alive.

He shuts his eyes and breathes deeply to still his agitation. Dimitri can’t find out about this, about his...state, or he’ll— 

“Felix, are you alright?”

Goddess help him. Even Dimitri’s quiet concern sounds far too lewd. “Shut up. I’m fine.”

He doesn’t want to think how those whispers would sound close to the shell of his ear. How warm Dimitri’s breath would be on his neck while he digs his fingers into Dimitri’s hair—no, he can’t, Dimitri doesn’t want that, Felix cannot allow his thoughts in that direction, because then his body will—

He can still hear Sylvain’s accursed moaning behind them. More hushed laughter as he and Dorothea increase their pace yet again, at least judging by the quickness of breaths.

There is a shuffling as Dimitri props himself on an elbow. Felix blinks an eye open. Dimitri’s stare has intensified, mouth in a slight frown. “Are you certain? You seem distressed.” 

“I said I’m fine.” Felix shifts to his other side, away from Dimitri, afraid his expression will somehow give him away. This is a mistake because it lets Dimitri’s voice sneak in tendrils up the back of his neck. 

“Felix. Do not neglect yourself for my sake.” 

He presses his lips together. Neglect himself—as if Dimitri could talk, could ask for that. Anger simmers under his skin, and Felix indulges in it, twisting back around to fling these thoughts in Dimitri’s face— 

“I would have you by my side as long as you’ll allow,” Dimitri says softly, to the floor. 

Felix’s eyes widen, blindsided by this display of emotion. “What?” 

Damn this tent. He’s too close, too trapped. Dimitri’s words are a mixture of fear and hope that sends cracks slicing through his carefully crafted walls. 

And then Dimitri is tilting his head to peer at Felix more closely. He’s leaning forward, balanced on one hand while the other he hovers over Felix’s forehead. In the dim, filtered moonlight, Felix can make out the jut of Dimitri’s collarbone where his undershirt hangs open, and his heart rate spikes.

“Are you ill?” Dimitri asks. 

He is certainly out of his mind. “No, it’s nothing.” 

Dimitri frowns. “You are quite warm. Let me—”

Felix’s hand flies out of nowhere and grips the wrist floating above him with full strength. His breaths are coming hard now, as hard as he is under the blankets, hips twisting involuntarily at the closeness of their bodies.

Dimitri follows the motion, taking in the rumpled blankets, the rise and fall of Felix’s chest, the iron hold on his wrist, and slowly brings his face up to meet Felix’s eyes. 

And Felix feels his stomach drop through the floor.

Dimitri’s open eye is wide, not quite manic, but large and looming, roving over him like it will swallow Felix whole. _How is he so calm?_ Felix’s heart is going to burst out of his throat, the way his breaths are silently choking before they can leave his mouth. It takes all of his willpower, a monumental force, to keep himself still.

He can practically _see_ the question threatening to spill out of Dimitri’s half open, inviting ( _inviting?)_ mouth, and in a panic, Felix does the only thing he can think of to prevent it from being said: he kisses him.

It’s a simple motion. A little too much force, his lips pushing Dimitri’s whole head back. The momentum ends, and Felix sinks back down to the pillow, frozen. He lets go of Dimitri’s wrist.

Dimitri’s eye flutters closed and then open again. He touches his lips with his now freed hand, fingertips brushing them as if to make sure they’re real. 

“Felix?” 

It’s not a question, and yet it is. Felix is afraid of the answer either way, eyes darting every which way but toward the person in front of him, torn between dread and longing. He’s still frozen, as still as the air in this goddess-forsaken tent. 

“Felix.” His voice is softer, heavier, testing the weight of new sensation. Catches Felix once again under that curious gaze, darker than before. “May I...touch you?”

Face burning, Felix wills himself to meet Dimitri’s gaze. Even in the dark, looking at Dimitri is like staring into a fire, into the sun itself. “Alright.”

Dimitri shifts so that he’s balanced across Felix’s body, covering it like a third blanket. One hand traces a line down Felix’s cheek, his neck, his bare shoulder, pulling the blankets down and running a thumb along his sternum, torturously gentle. Felix trembles. 

It’s too much attention, too soon, and Felix has to shut his eyes, internally reciting every curse he knows, followed by every prayer. 

“You are,” Dimitri whispers in awe, caressing with both hands and words, “exquisite.”

Felix aims a glare at him, though he’s sure it’s clouded with need. “Don’t talk,” he hisses.

“You would rather hear our friends?” There is a mischievous smirk tugging at the corner of Dimitri’s mouth, one he hasn’t seen in years.

As if on cue, they hear Dorothea cry out, gasping repeatedly, pitch rising each time. Through the roaring in Felix’s ears, she sounds like a drum, keeping time with his pulse, sending waves of heat down his whole body— _fuck_ he’s losing this battle... 

“No, ah—” The words dissolve into a moan as Dimitri’s fingers skim his hips. Goddess, saints above, this is humiliating. Yet he can’t help revelling in the way Dimitri’s breath hitches in response. 

Dimitri’s hand is at his chin now, and he sweeps his thumb over Felix’s bottom lip. “May I kiss you?”

Felix somehow manages to roll his eyes. This is so like Dimitri. “Do you have to ask?”

“Yes,” he says, into Felix’s mouth. His lips are cold but his breath warm, pouring into Felix like tea, slow and somnolent and heady. “Felix, I want so badly to be worthy of you…” 

“Shut up,” Felix growls, pulling away. “If we’re going to do this, I don’t want to hear any of that nonsense.”

Fisting a hand in Dimitri’s shirt, he yanks him down fully on top of him, and the contact, the weight of him is staggering in more ways than one, but he can’t think beyond the desire to touch every part of himself to every part of Dimitri. 

Dimitri grunts and obligingly shuts up, pressing his face to Felix’s neck, his three-day-old scruff scratching just rough enough to contrast the small kisses he leaves as he drags his mouth slowly upward into Felix’s hair. Felix is suffocating, absolutely breathless with want, and he races his hands up and down Dimitri’s muscular arms, ones he knows are capable of so much.

He’s lifted then, like a sack of feathers, one of Dimitri’s hands splayed across the small of his back and the other threading through his hair. Felix shivers at the touch and the loss of the bed’s heat. He clings instead to Dimitri, to his shirt, which really has to go if he’s being honest. He tugs at it with two hands until Dimitri relents and pulls it off. 

They’re on their knees on the sheepskin rug now, chest to chest, Dimitri’s pale skin glowing and scarred, the wisps of hair failing to hide all he’s been through. Felix rakes his nails through it and Dimitri gasps into his mouth again, kissing every part of Felix’s face he can reach, lowering him again to the ground as Felix loops his arms around Dimitri and clutches at his hair. 

High, breathy noises flutter in his ears, and it’s a moment before Felix realizes he’s the one making them. He bites his lip and buries his nose in the crook of Dimitri’s neck to stifle the sound. Saints forbid they alert Sylvain and—ah—egg him on somehow; knowing Sylvain it will inevitably escalate until they rouse the whole camp.

Dimitri laughs low into his hair. “Let them hear you. They’ve given us enough grief.” And Felix groans without meaning to, aching for more friction, writhing and rolling his hips. Dimitri is straddling him, not with full weight but just enough to tease.

Felix guides Dimitri’s hand down to his pants and presses insistently on his own erection. Dimitri raises his brows in question, but Felix stares, breathing heavily, and grinds against him, until he unbuttons them and _finally_ releases some of the tension that’s been coiled there for too long.

He throws his head back and whines at the feel of Dimitri’s calloused palm on his cock. Nearly faints at the size of his hands, hands that Felix has seen break weapons thicker than he is, as he bucks forward into the pressure. Even with his eyes closed, he knows Dimitri must be staring at him, can feel Dimitri’s hair tickling his throat. “Fuck, oh _fuck_ , Dimitri…”

Dimitri shudders above him, hot breaths feather-light on his chin. “May I— _mmf_.” Felix swallows his words with another kiss. “Felix, will you allow me to please you like this?”

Felix will never admit this, but the politeness of the request whispered against his skin, with so much need lacing the words—from a man who can _rip him in half_ —sends him reeling. “Saints, fuck, Dimitri, just do it already.” The longer this takes, the more likely his mind will try to process what it means, and he’s not ready to face that. “ _Please._ ”

He sits up on his elbows and reaches to untie the strings of Dimitri’s pants, noting with satisfaction the wet spots they’ve made, wriggling his hand in and wrapping it around Dimitri’s sizeable—oh fuck, oh holy Goddess, he’s big—and the moan that spills from Dimitri’s mouth is the best thing Felix has ever heard, he’s greedy for it, wants it flush against him like a second skin. 

The angle he’s bent in means he doesn’t have the best grasp, can’t stroke Dimitri until he’s desperate like he really wants, so instead he lifts his hips and curls Dimitri’s fingers around both of them, hot and leaking. Even together they hardly fill his now slick, dripping hands, moving in slow pumps. Felix watches him, ravenous, rapt, until he can’t watch anymore. His eyes squeeze shut, arms scrambling for purchase above his head, and—ah, _oh,_ he’s close, he—fuck—he can barely breathe, much less warn Dimitri, as he empties into his hands. Dimitri comes half a minute later, sighing Felix’s name. 

They collapse in a heap. Dimitri is muttering nonsense into his chest, but Felix ignores it. He does not have the energy to think about what just happened. He musters enough strength only to grab the tea cloth and wipe them both down before tossing it at his pack. 

Murmurs from the tent behind them, sounds of comfort and ease, float in and out unnoticed, and they fall asleep tangled together on the rug between their beds.

~*~

Dawn is gray and damp as they pack up camp. Soldiers move to and fro with horses pulling the supply wagons. Dimitri is standing in the center, lifting what he can, gloved hands nuzzling the horses that pass within reach. 

Felix carries a bundle of unused firewood, begins lining the logs up against the crates already piled in the cart next to him. He hasn’t spoken much to Dimitri this morning—can’t do it without remembering the previous night—but then again he hasn’t snapped at him either, so it’s really a win for them both if he thinks about it. 

He nears Dimitri just as Sylvain sidles up between them, holding a bedroll on one shoulder.

“Morning, sunshines,” he says, beaming. “How did you sl— _oof._ ” Felix punches him in the stomach. “...sleep,” he finishes, wincing. 

“You’re obnoxious,” is Felix’s only answer.

Dimitri actually smiles. “Wonderfully. The best night’s sleep I have had in months.” 

Felix looks away to hide his flush. Goddess, what an idiot.

Sylvain grins, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t say.” And then lower, in Dimitri’s ear: “Glad I could be of service.” He throws the roll onto the full cart and saunters away, heedless of Dimitri’s choked cough. 

His curiosity piqued, Felix remembers the conversation he overheard yesterday. Turns to Dimitri, puzzled. “Service?”

And _Dimitri’s_ cheeks grow pink. “Ah, I may have mentioned something to him about...well, I did not realize that was his intention…”

Dorothea rides by, astride her horse, smiling prettily. She blows Felix a kiss, and he frowns. Ugh, why must everyone be so insufferably cheerful in the mornings. “Intention for what? What did you say to him?”

Dimitri glances around, lowering his voice. “I may have said something about wanting you to...” he clears his throat, looking away, “...make a move?”

Felix drops the log he was carrying. 

“You _WHAT?_ ”

**Author's Note:**

> RIP Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd.  
> Companion piece coming soon featuring the same night from Dorothea’s pov? ;)  
> I swear I have more serious wips on deck but *stuffs head in sand*
> 
> Come talk to me on twitter @imachillydeer about any of your fave fe3h ships/meta/nonsense!


End file.
